Soldiers of Misfortune
by SNSIE
Summary: The stench of Civil War hangs in the air as the brothers investigate a series of mysterious deaths amongst Marines in Maryland. But dark secrets are revealed to one brother and hidden from the other, and a new hunter joins the fray...


_This story is dedicated to the men and women of the Coalition forces in Iraq and Afghanistan. Stay safe, all._

Soldiers of Misfortune

_By Kes Cross_

_September 17__th__ 1862 – the outskirts of Sharpsburg, Maryland…_

A soft light crept over the Maryland grasslands, illuminating the cobwebs that hung from the taller fronds of grass. Pearls of dew glistened on gossamer threads and a warm September breeze rustled the bronzed leaves. None of Fall's sublime beauty registered with Private Tobias Armstrong. All he could think about was the impending battle with the Union Armies of President Lincoln. General Lee had marched them into northern territory after he had decimated the Union Army at Manassas in August of that year. The march had been hard - desperately hard. The Confederate Army was exhausted, low on supplies, food and ammunition and even lower on morale, despite the victory at Manassas. Tobias was a long way from his Alabama home. He couldn't stand this damp, miserable place. He couldn't stand the relentless marching. He couldn't stand the thought that any day, he might die, hundreds of miles from home, in an alien land…

Tobias tried to concentrate on the job at hand. He was a soldier. He didn't want to be one; it's just the way things had been. Throughout the war, families had sacrificed their sons and fathers to the interminable storm. Sharpsburg was just another dot on a map – a map that Tobias couldn't even read. The Confederate Army had set up camp just behind the battle line that had been drawn up at Antietam Creek. The previous two days had been a harrowing cat and mouse chase through South Mountain, where Lee's Confederate Army, despite outnumbering the Union troops by more than 35,000 men, had been forced to fight a rear guard action all the way to the open ground. Tobias had been terrified. His rifle was poorly maintained and in dire need of a service. If it hadn't been for the quick thinking of his comrades, that final jam would have cost him his life. Luck had smiled on him that day, and he had lived through the South Mountain skirmish.

And that's all it had been. A mere skirmish. Everyone knew that today, the battle would be decided.

Men were quiet. Across the camp, the smell of cordite and woodsmoke filled the air. A meagre breakfast of porridge and coffee had done nothing to sate the gnawing hunger in the men's bellies. If they were truthful, it wasn't hunger pangs that made their guts ache. It was a twisted knot of impending fear that turned their stomachs rigid. Despite the cool Fall breeze, Tobias was sweating. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead, mirroring the dew on the spider's webs. He tried to clean the barrel of his rifle with a worn piece of rag wrapped around a hazel twig, but the grease merely blackened the cloth. He carefully laid out his ammunition on the bedsheet. 24 bullets. That's all. 24 bullets to fight a battle with. His mouth went dry.

"You OK there, son?"

Tobias looked up into the dark eyes of the sergeant. The man was a veteran of the war and a fellow Alabama boy. He smiled benignly down at the frightened young man and crouched down beside him, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"I… I need more ammo, sir."

"There isn't any, son. Best thing you can do is make every damn bullet count. Make sure every single shot finds its mark. Take your time before each shot. Breathe. Remember to breathe. And, god willing, we'll see this day through." The sergeant patted the boy's cheek kindly. "Ya know, I got a boy about your age. He's a soldier too." He stood up. "Don't worry, son. I'll keep a look out for ya. God bless." With that, the soldier turned and walked away into the camp, stopping here and there to talk to another frightened soldier, to reassure another soul that he would look out for them.

"Words of wisdom from an old soldier. Don't do nothin' for the fear though, does it boy?" Tobias turned quickly and looked into the darkest pair of eyes he had ever seen. The man smiled. That smile… It chilled Tobias and he shuddered involuntarily. "Scared, kid? Ya should be. There's an army out there, gunnin' for yer ass, and you have, what, twenty bullets to keep them at bay? Ain't gonna go too far now, are they?"

"Twenty four. I got me twenty four bullets, mister."

The man threw his head back and laughed heartily. "Oh, twenty _four_, is it? Well, now, that goes and makes all the damn difference, don't it?"

He slumped down onto the ground next to Tobias with a grunt. He took a swig of coffee from his tin mug and swallowed, smacking his lips happily. He gazed up into the clear sky and breathed in deeply. "Ahh! Smell that? That's the smell of war, son. He leaned back on one elbow and toasted Tobias with the mug. "First big battle, kid?"

"Who the hell are you?"

"Oh, just another gunny, boy. Just another gunny." The man grinned and took another mouthful of coffee. "Seems to me, that our beloved generals are sending us into this battle blind, if you know what I mean."

"No, I _don't _know what you mean, _Gunny_. And General Lee? He knows _exactly _what he's doin'!" Tobias was angry. He could feel a twist of rage in his stomach. Who the hell was this son of a bitch to come into his world with his doubt and gleeful delight of war? Tobias really wanted to be as far away from this horse's ass as possible.

"Does he now? And you'll be privy to this information how, boy?" The man shifted his weight, sitting upright and staring hard at the boy. Tobias couldn't take his gaze away from the man's eyes. They were black. Black as hell… "Well, shall I let you into a little secret, Tobias?" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Today? Gonna be one _hell _of a battle. Gonna be remembered down the years, see. And not for good reasons." The man let out a sudden shout of laughter that shocked Tobias backwards. The black-eyed man stood up quickly, towering over the young lad. Tobias looked up at him, his blood curdling in his veins. A malodorous smile played around the corners of his thin mouth and a sense of doom filled Tobias. "Watch out for the Irish, boy. You hear their battle cry, youse _run_!" The man laughed again and was gone, lost amongst the throngs of the camp…

Tobias stared after the man. A sudden thought crossed his mind. "Hey! How'd the hell ya know my name, Gunny?" The man wasn't there any more…

The piercing shout of the bugle cut through the camp, calling the soldiers to attention. Tobias scrabbled desperately, snatching his bullets up with his hand and scooping them into his pocket. One single bullet slipped from his fingers and agonisingly slowly, dropped into the grass, rolling away. Twenty three. Now he only had twenty three… He scanned the grass, desperately hunting for the lost bullet, but the bugle was relentless. Officers barked savage orders, delivering a well-aimed kick here and there to hurry the reluctant soldiers to war. Tobias slung his rifle over his shoulder and, snatching a last mouthful of coffee, sprinted through the camp to his unit. That lost bullet still played on his mind.

The black-eyed man bent down, his fingers brushing the damp grass. Where he touched living grass, it withered and blackened before him. His fingers closed around the cold metal casing of the lost bullet and he straightened up, studying the round. He rolled the bullet between his fingers and smiled darkly…

They had left the camp and marched towards the town of Sharpsburg. Suddenly, a whistling sound screamed overhead and an explosion blew Tobias off his feet. General Joseph Hooker's artillery had opened their first volley with a direct hit into the middle of the Confederate ranks. The cornfield the men had been walking through exploded into a nightmarish vision of flying dirt, corn stems and bloody limbs. The screams of the men who had been directly in the path of that first volley filled the morning air, silencing the birds and making the surviving soldiers scatter and take cover. Orders rang out, urging men to advance.

They weren't Confederate orders. The Union Army cut through the cornfield, slashing corn and men to the ground. Tobias, his breath coming in ragged gasps, looked around wildly, desperately seeking a means of escaping the onslaught.

"THIS WAY! THIS WAY BOY!" It was the sergeant who had told him earlier that day that he would keep an eye out for him. "Head for the sunken road! MOVE BOY, MOVE!" Roughly, the sergeant grabbed the scruff of Tobias's jacket, throwing him stumbling forward. "Remember! MAKE EVERY BULLET COUNT!" He shoved the boy in the small of the back, urging him to run for the sunken road. Tobias glanced back to see the sergeant nod at him, his eyes urgent. Suddenly, his body arched and his knees buckled under him. The look of urgency on the sergeant's face turned to one of surprise, and then fear. Tobias saw the blood explode from the man's chest. He had taken a shot in the back. It had blown clean through him, spraying the man's blood over Tobias. Tobias winced and recoiled from the impact of the blood on his skin. He looked back to see the sergeant on his knees, his arms hanging limply by his side. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth and his eyes were glassy. "Every bullet counts, son…" The man toppled face forward into the damp earth and was still.

Survival instinct kicked in and Tobias sprinted towards the sunken road that ran between two farms. He vaulted over the raised banks and landed next to a handful of Confederate soldiers. He spun around, resting his rifle on the bank, aiming at the oncoming Union soldiers. Shaking in terror, his fumbling hands loaded a bullet into the rifle. Then, they waited… Tobias could hear his heart pounding in his chest. Sweet God, it felt like it was going to burst out of his chest! Tears of terror ran down his cheeks. He was not the only one. The man to his right, a boy not much older than himself, was crying uncontrollably, his sobs coming in rasping gasps. The man to Tobias's left was silent, grim faced. He ran his hand down his jacket, wiping the sweat from his palms. He turned to Tobias. An ugly scar ran across his left eye socket and down his cheek. Stubble darkened his face, and black rings circled his eyes. The man looked dead already…

The first onslaught came. Tobias didn't have time to think. He tried to remember the dying words of the sergeant. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Make every bullet count… Automatically, he fired into the oncoming army, watching as each bullet found its mark. Union soldiers dropped as his bullets slammed into them. He watched blindly as a man's head exploded from the impact of a bullet. A bullet he fired. The man's death was instantaneous. Reload. Breathe. Fire. Another Union soldier lurched to the left as the bullet slammed into his chest, puncturing his heart. Reload. Breathe. Fire. Another Union soldier dropped to his knees, desperately clutching at his stomach, trying to hold his guts in. Reload. Breathe. Fire. Twenty three times. The twenty third bullet missed, burying itself harmlessly in the dirt. Tobias reached inside his pocket. Too late he remembered that last bullet, lying lost in the grass back at the camp… He glanced to his right. The crying boy wasn't crying tears any more. He lay on his back on the bank, lifeless eyes staring up into the perfect Fall morning sky. Rivulets of blood ran down his face and in the centre of his forehead a dark hole showed the entry point of a Unionist's bullet. Tobias wrestled the rifle from the man's dead fingers and cocked the rifle. He squeezed on the trigger. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. Weeping with fear, he tried again. The rifle was jammed. He looked around the sunken lane frantically, his eyes desperately looking for a weapon he could use against the oncoming wall of Union soldiers. The Confederate troops lay dead and dying in the roadside, their bodies piled on top of each other. The stench of blood and faeces filled the air. Time seemed to slow…

"Lookin' for this, Tobias?"

Tobias snapped his head around to see the black-eyed man twirling the twenty fourth bullet between his fingers. He tossed the bullet into the air and Tobias watched it as it tumbled end over end, shimmering in the sunlight… The black-eyed man's hand snapped closed around the bullet and he laughed. "They're coming, son. The Irish. Time to die."

"Please…"

"What? You don't wanna die? Oh, poor widdle you! Scared, boy? Ya should be. You just killed twenty two men. You're gonna _burn, _boy!" The man laughed. "Oh, don't worry. There'll be plenty more wars to come, son. Wars in muddy fields filled with poppies, wars in deserts, and one day? A war that will end _all _wars, boy. A war that will be fought in the darkness, in the foetid, mosquito infested swamps of the south and in the sordid streets of the cities in the north. A war that will bring about a change in the world order. _MY _war, son." He smiled brightly at the boy. "And if you're _real lucky, _I might just let your poor tortured soul fight in that one too. See, I'm on a mission here, boy. I need soldiers. Lots of 'em. And you? You're perfect. Ignorant, feeble-minded, backward, ready to sell your soul for a single bullet. Because you _know _what'll happen if the Irish get you, don't you? Ever seen a man disembowelled? Ain't pretty, well, not to you anyway. Me?" He smacked his lips. "Delicious!" He crouched down in front of the man. "So here's the thing. You're gonna die today, that's a given. Nothing I can do about that. But what I _can _do is give you an easy and relatively quick way out. You can take this bullet and use it on yourself. Or you can wait for _them. _Your call."

Tobias eyed the bullet. "What if I were to take the bullet and use it on _you, _you son of a bitch?"

The black-eyed man sat back on his haunches and laughed loudly. "Now ya see? _That's _why I like you!" He stopped, listening intently. "D'ya hear that? Huh? D'ya hear that, Tobias?"

On the wind, Tobias could hear the sound of marching feet. The snap of a fluttering standard cracked like a rifle shot and over the horizon, Tobias could see the ranks of the 69th of New York. The Irish Brigade. In front of the ranks rode Thomas Meagher, commander of the 69th and a legend in the war. A drummer boy marched proudly next to the standard-bearer and Father Corby, a priest, his black robes fluttering in the breeze like crow's wings, recited the mass. They marched in grim silence, waiting for the signal. Meagher raised his hand and as one man, the 69th raised voice in their battle cry: "_Faugh-a-Balaugh!"_. They charged, screaming, towards the last remaining Confederates in the sunken lane…

"You know what that means, boy? It's Gaelic for "Clear the way!" He leaned close into Tobias, holding the bullet like a talisman. "You ready to _die, _boy?"

Tobias snatched the bullet from the man's fingers and loaded it into the rifle. The bolt snapped back and he took aim. The shot shattered the flagstaff holding the emerald green banner aloft, the splinters stabbing into the standard-bearer's face. The Irishman screamed and dropped to his knees, clutching his hands to his bloodied face. Tobias turned back to the black-eyed man, his face calm.

"Every bullet counts, _Gunny!" _He stared defiantly at the man. "By the way, that's a damn stupid name, if you ask me!"

"Oh, trust me son, one day, in the future, it'll be a term of endearment!" The man laughed loudly and pointed over Tobias's shoulder. Tobias turned around just in time to see a snarling Irishman bearing down on him, the vicious point of a bayonet gleaming in the sunlight. Tobias felt the blade slide into his guts, a burning, ice cold pain tearing through him. The Irishman pushed his bodyweight behind the lunge and drove the bayonet through Tobias, smashing his spine and ripping through flesh and muscle. He twisted the blade with a grunt, pulling it up through Tobias's body, his stinking breath filling the young man's nostrils. The blade slid free and Tobias looked down, staring at the massive wound in his stomach. He looked up into the Irishman's eyes as he sank, dying, to his knees. The Irishman's eyes were as black as hell…

The black-eyed man watched, smiling, as Tobias slowly died. The young man lay on top of the bodies of his comrades, his blood mingling with theirs. As the light of life slowly flickered and died in his eyes, the last thing he saw was the black-eyed man, leaning over him. He wasn't smiling any more. He put his mouth to Tobias's ear, whispering gently to the dying man…

"You're my little soldier boy now…"

**SUPERNATURAL…** Sharpsburg, present day 

The Impala growled to a stop on the main street. Dean turned the key and the engine spluttered and died. Hanging one arm over the back of the seat, he turned to his brother. "OK, we're here. So remind me, college boy, why I've just driven god knows how far 'cross country and missed out on some twin action, _again!_" He glared at his younger brother, who was still studying the file. "'Cause, bro? This _better _be good!" He glanced over to the diner and smiled broadly. "Yey! Pecan Pie! OK, whatever it is, it'll hold 'till I get me a coffee and a slice of that pie"

Sam glanced over at the diner and back at his brother. "Dude, you just ate, like, an _hour _ago!"

"It's my dying wish, Sammy." Dean feigned a serious look, but there was no masking the mischievous twinkle in his green eyes. Sam sighed and glowered at his brother.

"You know, there is a limit on how many times you can use that line, Dean."

"But it's _Pecan_ Pie! C'mon, man, even _you _like that!" The driver's door creaked open and Dean jumped out, his thoughts focused on pie. He leaned back into the car and grinned disarmingly at his brother. "Dude, tell you what. You bring that file with you and you can talk and I can eat, OK?" He stood up and slammed the door shut. Sam shook his head, gathered up the cuttings in the file and followed his brother into the diner.

Five minutes later, Dean was happily tucking into a slice of pie that left little for anyone else who might like to try the delights of 'Patsy's Pecan Pie'. Sam watched bemused as his brother shovelled chunks of the pie into his mouth, chewing happily and managing to grin at the same time. "Oh, MAN, this is good!" Dean waved the fork at Sam and swallowed noisily. "Seriously, dude. You should try this."

"Dean, people are staring, man!"

"So?"

Sam took a deep breath. "So, OK, the case. You want me to tell you about it?"

Dean leaned back, a deadpan look on his face. "No, Sammy, I want you to keep it to yourself, because you know me, I just love surprises. Of _course _I want you to tell me! Sheesh!"

"OK, so how's your Civil War history?" Dean paused and just looked at his brother. Sam realised that he had just been deadpanned again. "Right, yeah. Dumb question. So this is Sharpsburg, the site of one of the most bloody battles in the war."

"Yeah. The Irish Brigade. Man, General Lee really screwed this particular set-to up. You know he outnumbered the Unionist army by 35,000 troops and _still _managed to get his confederate ass kicked?"

Sam stared incredulously at Dean. "What the…"

"Dad made me study tactics when I was 12, Sammy. The Battle of Antietam was one of his favourites because it was such a monumental screw-up from start to finish." Dean paused and shoved another mouthful of pie into his mouth, scraping the plate clean with the edge of the fork. "What?" He licked the fork clean and it clattered onto the plate. "You were still trying to work out what your wiener was for at the time, bro. Civil War battles weren't high on your agenda then." He grinned at his brother and sat back, patting his stomach. "Man, that was _good _pie!" He leaned forward, cupping his hands around the coffee mug. "I also know that this is supposedly one of the most haunted sites in the US. But it's all been done to death, Sam. I mean, seriously. You seen some of them shows on cable where they go ghost hunting with torches strapped on their heads? You know? The Squee Brigade? This place has had more spook-botherers trampin' over it than you can count. So why are _we_ here?"

"This." Sam held out the cutting. Dean took it and started reading, frowning in concentration. "If you need any help with the big words, let me know." There was a note of petulance in Sam's voice. He hadn't liked the wiener crack. Dean just glanced up and grinned at him, returning to the article.

"OK, so a soldier died in Iraq. A lot of soldiers have died in Iraq, Sam. It's called a war."

"Dean, look past the obvious for once, will you? There's been several deaths here recently, all soldiers. There's also been a crop failure and freak weather conditions. You _do _remember all the portents for demonic activity, don't you?" Sam's voice was sharp

"Ooo, touchy today, ain't ya? Yes, Sammy, I _do_ remember all the portents for demonic activity." He ignored his brother's indignant look at his mimicry. "But sorry, dude, I still don't see a connection." He put the cutting down and picked up his coffee cup. "Like I said, this place has been investigated to death. If there's anywhere where there _isn't _gonna be any supernatural activity, it's here. Any self-respecting demon's gonna stay well clear of this place. Too obvious, no matter _which way _you look at it. And besides, this soldier died thousands of miles from here. There's no connection."

"I think you're wrong."

"You usually do."

"Look, Dean. There _is _something going on here. I can feel it. At least give it a look."

Dean sighed and sat back, staring at his brother. "OK, OK! Listen. We'll give it a couple of days. Check stuff out. And if you're right, just point me in the right direction and tell me what to kill and I'll kill it. BUT." He wagged a finger at his brother. "IF, after two days, we got nothin', I'm turning right along around and heading back to the twins. Deal?"

"Deal."

Dean grinned. "Good." He smiled at Sam. "Now. You want some pie?"

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Sharpsburg, Maryland – September 15th, 2007 

Master Sergeant Michael Watts stood to attention, not looking at the coffin of his friend and brother in Arms, Toby Richardson. Toby had died in a roadside bombing in Baghdad. His unit had been on patrol when some goddamn lunatic had blown himself up outside a café. Thirty seven people had died, dozens more horribly injured. Michael had witnessed it and countless other pointless deaths in one Faustian tableau after another out there. But Toby's death had hit him hard. They had grown up together in Sharpsburg. They had played soldiers together. They had joined up together. Michael found himself wishing that they had died together…

Toby Richardson was being buried with full military honours. The coffin was draped in the American flag, the Marine pallbearers resplendent in their full dress uniform. Toby's wife and three sisters sat at the graveside, all staring with hollow, red-rimmed eyes at the wooden casket that held the body of their brother and husband. It had been a closed casket. Had to be. Toby was a mess when they picked him up. Michael stepped forward, ramrod straight, his white gloves grasping the corners of the flag. As the Marines raised their rifles, he folded the flag into a perfect triangle, each corner precise and razor sharp. He turned, walked the three steps to Toby's wife and presented her with the flag. The gratitude of the American people for her husband's sacrifice. A simple flag. She took the token wordlessly, her pleading eyes staring up at Michael. She whispered three words. "Why, Michael? _Why?_"

He wanted to console her. He wanted to put his arms around her, to tell her that he had the same question burning in his soul. But he couldn't. He stepped back and saluted. Performing an about-turn, he marched back to the head of the coffin, fighting back the knot that twisted in his stomach. He was a Marine. He wasn't allowed to grieve. He turned back and stood at full salute as the coffin was lowered gently into the ground. The Marines brought their rifles up to their shoulders and Michael forced himself not to flinch as the crack of the salute echoed through the graveyard.

That was it.

The end of another young life.

The mourners started to filter away, leaving Toby's wife Jessica and Michael at the graveside. Once everyone else had moved away, Michael went to Jessica and crouched beside her. She sat, staring at the folded flag in her lap, unable to tear her eyes away from it. She placed a hand on the flag and stroked it gently. Without looking up, she spoke.

"Tell me it was worth his life, Michael. I need to hear it."

Michael placed a gentle, gloved hand on her shoulder. "Jess, I…"

"Tell me he didn't die for nothing."

Michael couldn't. His head fell forward onto his chest, his hand still resting on her shoulder. All he could hear was the crack of small arms fire, and the screams of his dying friend…

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He looked up sharply, glancing between the monuments and headstones. Someone was watching them… "Stay here, Jess. I'll be back in a second."

"Michael? Is everything OK?" Jess was on edge too. It was understandable. She had just buried her husband, but there was a note in Michael's voice – a note she had heard in Toby's many times. That hint of steel in the timbre of his voice…

Michael walked towards a figure standing between two stone angels. The man leaned casually on one of the angels, cleaning his nails with a pocket knife. He completely ignored the approaching figure of Michael, intent on scraping the last piece of crud from underneath a thumbnail. Michael stopped in front of him. He glanced up at the two stone angels. They seemed to be bearing down on the man, repelled by his presence but unable to move – their stone limbs frozen. One held a sword. It seemed to Michael that the angel would have willingly swung the sword down and sliced the man in two…

"Help ya?"

The man continued to study his thumbnail, ignoring Michael.

"I said…"

"I heard ya." The man glanced up and smiled. Michael stared into the darkest eyes he had ever seen. They were almost, no, they _were _black… "Shame about your friend. My sympathy for your loss." The words sounded hollow, meaningless. "War's a terrible thing, ain't it?"

"What the hell would you know?"

"Oh, I've seen plenty of wars, soldier. Plenty. Lost many friends."

Michael felt his resolve soften. The man was a fellow soldier. They had that connection that all soldiers have. "You knew Toby?"

"I knew all of them, Michael."

Michael paused, a frown creasing his features. "Do I know _you_?"

The man snapped the pocket knife shut and pushed it into his jacket pocket. "Nope. Not yet." He nodded over towards Jess. "His widow?"

"Jessica. Yes."

"She's a beautiful woman. I always think black is such an elegant colour on a woman, don't you?"

"OK, that's enough. Who are you and what do you want?"

"Just to pay my respects, that's all. No harm in that, surely?"

Michael took a step back. "No, OK, no harm. It's just…not a good time."

"I know. That knot of anger just won't quit, will it? Twisting inside ya, making ya all mad about the futility of war? Some of the best poetry ever written deals with that you know. Are you familiar with any of Wilfred Owen's work?" The man smiled again.

"Listen, you asshole! I don't know who you are or what you want, but if you don't back off _right _now…"

"I wanted to warn you, Michael. About another war that's going on right now, right _here. _A war that started up again just recently, buts been going on for thousands of years. A war you _can't win_." Suddenly, the man reared up. He was taller than Michael had thought; taller and much bigger. The dark eyes intensified and Michael felt himself being drawn into them, like being sucked into a pit of tar… Resistance would be useless. He could feel the knot of anger twisting into a new shape – a knot of fear…

"Two men are coming. Boys, mere children. One is rather special to us. The other? A pathetic foot soldier, intent on self-destruction. I don't care about him. But the other one? Ah, now _he's _gonna be a _big _star!" The man grinned and stepped forward, his hand wrapping tightly around Michael's throat. The soldier, a trained killer and powerfully built, was like a child in the man's grasp. "You can kill the older brother if you like. Makes no odds to me. But the younger brother must be protected, you understand? Otherwise Jessica over there will be joining her husband much sooner than expected. _Do you understand?_"

The grip tightened. Michael could feel the life being choked out of him. His arms hung limply by his side, his mouth wide open as he struggled to push air past the choking grip of the man and into his screaming lungs. He gurgled, his eyes beginning to bulge. The man brought his other hand up and the tips of his fingers rested against Michael's forehead. His hand, bladed and rigid, pushed forward and Michael felt the fingertips slide through his skin, through his skull and into his brain. A burning, searing sensation filled him and he writhed in the man's grip, terrified beyond anything he had ever known. A pulsing light ran the length of the man's fingers and into the gaping hole in the centre of Michael's forehead. He felt the wave of evil blast into his mind, corrupting everything it touched. Slowly, the man's hand drew back and the wound glowed for a second before knitting itself shut. There was no trace of the violation that had just taken place.

"Good boy." The man suddenly dropped his hand away and Michael staggered back, gasping and clutching at his throat where the man's fingers had almost crushed his windpipe. He stared at the man, utter confusion filling him, vying with the terror he felt for supremacy in his mind.

"You son of a bitch, what the _hell _did you just do to me?"

"Oh, showed you the _other _side of war." The man grinned. "You have a choice, soldier. Obey orders, or…" He left the sentence hanging in mid-air. Michael pulled himself up. He'd faced Iraqi roadside bombs. He'd faced children wearing explosive vests. But this? No. This was wrong. So wrong…

"I'll be in touch, Gunny." The man casually saluted Michael, turned and walked away, vanishing amongst the headstones.

Michael stood up, composing himself and straightening his jacket with a sharp tug of the hem. He looked back at the still form of Jessica, still clutching the folded flag at Toby's graveside. How could he turn his back on that?

No.

That black eyed man could go to hell, as far as Michael was concerned. And if those two kids turned up? Damn it, he'd warn them, help them if he could. Help them fight against…

What?

xx…xx…xx…xx…xx…xx…xx…xx…_snsie_…xx…xx…xx…xx…xx…xx…

The Impala grumbled to a stop at the top of the lane, the head-lights cutting through the mist that filled the sunken road. Dean killed the engine and stared out at the gauzy night. "Whoa. _Spooky, _Scooby." He opened the door and climbed out, leaning on the roof of the car, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger. The damp air filled his nostrils, smelling of wet grass and mud. And something else… A metallic tang on the air filtered through his olfactory system and into his brain. A coppery smell. Like dried blood…

"Bloody Lane. The scene of the most savage slaughter of the battle. It's said that the bodies were piled three feet high all along here." Sam slammed the passenger door, shattering the silence. Dean winced at the sound and he rounded angrily on his brother.

"Wanna make a little more noise there, twinkle-toes?" He pulled the EMF meter out of his pocket and switched it on, fiddling with the antenna. The meter let out a yelp as the cascade of lights lit up. All the way to red. "OK, so _that _can't be good…" Dean held the meter out in front of him, sweeping it back and forth as he moved forward. Sam fell in behind him, scanning the road ahead with a torch, the beam cutting like a knife through the mist. "Man, this is like a bad movie set. I mean, just how clichéd is that mist?"

"Typical Maryland mist, Dean. It's not here for any special effect. I mean, it is Fall, dude."

"Yeah, but there's mist and there's _mist, _if you catch my drift. This was where the Irish Brigade cut down the Confederate resistance, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. Supposedly, they lost their first standard bearer here. The flag was raised eight times, but the first one died here. Apparently, a confederate soldier got a lucky shot in and shattered the standard in the man's hands."

"So the standard bearer died of _splinters_? You kidding me?" Dean let out a shout of laughter.

"No Dean, the standard bearer died when the bullet went _through _the standard and into his face. Colonel Meagher, the commanding officer, had his horse shot from under him and _still _kept on fighting."

"OK, so that's at least one angry spirit we got. Splinter-Boy. But seriously, dude, I still don't see what this has to do with…

"HALT! WHO GOES THERE?"

Dean and Sam froze. Dean glanced across at his brother, a puzzled expression on his face. Sam indicated with a look that he was as puzzled as his brother, and the men returned their gaze to the impenetrable mist that swirled in eddies around the lane. Dean stepped forward, bringing his flashlight up to eye level and peering deep into the mist. "Say what?"

"HALT! WHO GOES THERE? FRIEND OR FOE?"

"Are you_ kidding _me?"

"STEP FORTH AND BE RECOGNISED!"

Dean pushed the screaming EMF meter into his pocket and frowned. Slowly, a figure emerged from the mist, a rifle held in front of him. Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, _man! _It's one of those re-enactment nuts!" He relaxed and walked towards the man, grinning broadly. "I HATE these idiots!" he muttered through gritted teeth. "Hey, there, kinda late to be out playin' soldiers, isn't it?"

"I SAID, STEP FORTH AND BE RECOGNISED!"

"Be careful, Dean…" Sam was on edge. There was something very wrong about this whole situation…

"It's fine, Sammy! It's just a guy who's obviously not heard that the re-enactment society have cancelled this week's meeting and…"

The bullet took Dean in the shoulder, slamming him back against a tree. "JESUS!" He slid slowly down to the base of the boll, clutching his shoulder and grimacing in pain. He fought frantically against the desire to pass out, the waves of nausea hitting him. "SAM! GET OUT OF HERE! NOW! _SAM!" _

"DEAN!" Sam stared in disbelief at the sight of his brother lying at the base of the tree, the dark stain of blood already seeping through the cloth of his jacket. He reached into the small of his back, pulling the automatic out in one smooth move. The gun swung up expertly, the barrel sniffing the air. He aimed at the figure and fired with no warning. The figure didn't even slow its relentless march towards his stricken brother. He fired again, the bullet having no effect. As the figure stepped into the beams of the headlights, Sam could see a massive, gaping wound in the man's stomach. His eyes were black as the pits of hell. This was no re-enactment player…

The soldier bore down on Dean, frantically patting his pocket for another bullet. "Twenty three. Twenty three. There should be twenty four..."

Dean looked puzzled, but was silently praying that whoever he was, he didn't find that twenty-fourth bullet. He gritted his teeth, trying to reach around for his Glock that was pushed into the waistband of his jeans. Every move sent a wave of pain through his shoulder.

Then, his blood froze as a spinning bullet appeared mid-air, in front of the soldier. The soldier smiled and plucked the bullet from the air, loading it slowly into the rifle. The black eyes locked with Dean's as he rammed the bullet home into the chamber, cocking the gun and slowly drawing it up to his shoulder. Dean stared at the barrel of the rifle, knowing that, from this range, the man couldn't possibly miss…

The man suddenly threw his head back and screamed, roaring in pain and fury. The image of the man exploded in front of Dean, causing him to throw his good arm protectively across his face. When he drew his arm back, his brother stood in front of him, a vessel of holy water in his hand. A single drop hung from the rim and, glinting like a diamond, fell silently to the ground. Dean slumped back against the tree, his eyes closed tight as he tried to calm his ragged breathing. Sam dropped into a crouch, one protective arm around his brother.

"Dean! C'mon, man, talk to me!"

"Ow."

Sam sat back. "Ow? That's all you can say? _Ow?_"

"Sam, cut me some slack, would ya? That son of a bitch _shot _me!" He could feel a cold, clammy sweat breaking out on his forehead as his body reacted to the shock of the gunshot wound. Sam slipped his arm around the back of Dean and tipped his brother forward. "SON OF A BITCH!" Sam quickly examined his brother and let his injured sibling slump back onto his arm.

"It's OK, Dean, it passed straight through. Flesh wound. You'll be OK. But we need to get you cleaned up. Can you stand up?"

"He shot me in the shoulder, Sammy, not the ass!" But Dean didn't push his brother's helping hand away. Sam took his weight as Dean staggered to his feet, looping his arm under his brother's armpits as he felt Dean's knees buckle.

"Easy, big fella!" He shifted his grip, supporting his brother's steps to the car. Dean went to stagger around to the driver's seat. "Oh, no you don't!" Sam pushed Dean into the passenger seat and slammed the door. He trotted around to the driver's side and slipped into the car, slamming the door shut. He looked across at his brother. Dean leaned his head back on the head-rest, his eyes closed. He was pale and sweating. The wound was a nasty one, but it hadn't damaged any major blood vessels or broken any bones. Dean had been lucky. This time. "You OK, Dean?"

"Oh, yeah." Dean laughed. "Peachy." He looked at his brother. "Remind me to send a strongly worded letter to the re-enactment society, telling them about how PISSED I am at them!"

"Dean, that was no actor, man."

"Ya _think? _And since when did the dead go around _shooting the goddamn living?"_

"Think this is our kinda thing now, bro?"

"Hell YES! Damn, I'm that mad right now…"

"Well, hold on there, General Schwartzkopf, until I get that shoulder of yours cleaned up, OK?" Sam twisted the key and the Impala roared into life. For a brief second, he paused, staring deep into the mist. There was another figure there – a figure he seemed to recognise…

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"Will you _hold still, _Dean!" Sam snatched his hand away, the bloody gauze held between his fingers, and glared at his brother.

"God _damn it, _Sammy, if you'd stop _butchering _my shoulder, I might be more co-operative!" Dean winced and took another pull from the bottle of Jack Daniel's that he held tight in his left hand.

"You wanna stop wimping out on me, Dean?" Sam grasped Dean's elbow in a vice like grip and pressed the gauze against the wound again, making sure that the iodine made contact with the ragged edges of the gunshot entry point. Dean stifled a roar of pain, his left hand balling into a fist. "Perhaps if you were a little less gung-ho with your life and a little more cautious sometimes, I might not have to be doing this. _Again._" He dropped the bloodied gauze onto the floor and picked up the dressing, tearing the backing strip off with his teeth. He pressed the dressing against the wound, ignoring his brothers' yelp of pain and sat back. "There. All done."

"Why do people _always _say that after they've finished molesting someone in the name of medicine?" Dean tested his arm, wincing as the wound pulled against the movement.

"Because it's supposed to be reassuring, especially to bad patients!"

"Thanks, Florence, that's really made me feel a _whole _lot better. And while we're having this 'don't worry, everything will be fine' moment, wanna reassure me as to the fact that I _didn't _just get shot by a goddamn ghost?"

"No, Dean, you just got shot by a goddamn ghost."

"And this reassures me how?"

"It wasn't meant to. I'm as baffled by that one as you are." Sam stood up and ran his hand through his hair, pushing a stray strand back from his forehead. "Look Dean. This is the first time I've ever heard of a ghost actually causing physical harm on the living by using a weapon. Usually, if it's poltergeist activity, say, they use inanimate objects, like throwing stuff around."

"So maybe we're not dealing with a ghost here. Maybe Mister Shooty was demonic."

"Possibly. But why the Civil War get-up? And if he was demonic, how come the holy water worked? I mean, demons don't like the stuff, granted, but they don't usually vanish like that. And that rifle seemed real enough." He pointed at his brother's shoulder. "I still don't understand the civil war theme though."

"A bit behind the times?"

"Very funny. No, I think there's something much bigger here."

Dean scowled. "You think it has something to do with the critters that got out when Jake…" He didn't finish the sentence. The memories of that night were still too vivid. The sentence didn't need to be finished. Sam looked down at the floor, unable to meet his brother's gaze.

"Sammy?"

"Dean, listen. I don't want you thinking I'm gonna go all Oprah on you, but you really need to think about things a bit more. I mean, what you did there tonight was rash. It was stupid, Dean. It was…"

"What the _hell _are you talking about?" Dean stood up angrily, pulling his shirt back on over his damaged shoulder, ignoring the pain that shot through his arm. "Like I was supposed to know that dude was gonna take a pot shot at me? Newsflash, Sammy, _you're _the one who has the visions, remember? D'ya see that comin'? NO! So stop chewin' my ass off about how I got some kinda death wish thing goin' on. I HAVEN'T, OK? Now can we focus on the bigger picture, like what the hell was pulling that critter's strings? Because it sure as hell wasn't anything paranormal on the oh-eek!-It's-a-ghost! level!" He grabbed his battered brown leather jacket and threw it on, pushing the nine millimetre automatic pistol into his belt. "That son of a bitch shot me, Sammy. That makes it personal. But it also means that the bastard has corporeal form. Which means I can kill the…"

"It's already dead, Dean. You can't kill something that's already dead. And you wanna pause for breath here, bro? We need to do some research here. We need to…"

Sam was interrupted by the scream of sirens racing past the motel. Dean snapped his head around, watching the ambulance and police cars roar down the street. Sam stared, puzzled by Dean's interest at the passing traffic. "What?"

"Seems a lot of activity for a Thursday night in Nothingoinonsville." He opened the door to the motel room and glanced back at his brother. "You go research yourself into a state of happiness, Sammy. I'm gonna go sniff around. See what I can dig up."

"Dean?"

"What?"

"Be careful."

"Oh, man, give me a _break_!" Dean slammed the door shut behind him, ignoring his brother's growls of indignation. His radar was prickling. Dean had always had a sense when things were not right, not natural. He had overheard his dad talking to Bobby once when he was a kid. And that sense wasn't deserting him now…

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The kitchen was dark; the only light illuminating it came from the open fridge door. Michael stood in the light wearing a tee-shirt and boxers, pouring himself a glass of milk. He couldn't sleep. Burying his best friend had been bad enough. But the encounter at the cemetery had shaken him to the core. He had said nothing to Jess about it, although she had commented on how pale he had seemed. He dismissed her inquisition with a mumbled remark about lack of sleep or something. She hadn't bought it, but it was the best he was going to give her.

Michael closed the fridge door and pulled a chair out at the table. The scraping noise sounded like fingernails running down a blackboard. Funny how everything seemed amplified in the small hours… He slumped down into the chair and took a mouthful of milk. Swallowing, he ran his hand through his cropped hair, rubbing at the back of his neck. His nerves were on fire. He hadn't felt this tense since Baghdad. His head dropped onto his chest, his hands cradling the glass of milk as he let his mind wander.

The shouts. Warning his platoon of the oncoming attack from the insurgents. The scream of the mortar shell as it whined overhead, slamming into the Jeep and blowing it apart. The smell of the dirt in his nostrils as he hit the floor, thrown forward into the dry dust by the force of the explosion. The crack of small arms fire, smacking into the mud wall he and Toby were scrabbling behind, desperate for cover, desperate to pinpoint where the sniper was hiding. Toby screaming in his ear that he was going to move forward to the base of the crumbling building across the street and to cover him. His bellowed "NO!" as Toby scuttled forward, his rifle snapping sharp retorts at the hidden insurgents. Then, the huge explosion as the roadside bomb was finally detonated. Toby's rifle, now silent. The moment's calm as the echoes of the explosion reverberated around the street. His own breath, ragged in his throat. And then…

Michael snapped out of the flashback as his window shattered in a shower of glittering fragments. He dived off the chair and rolled, coming up with his back against the kitchen unit under the now empty window frame. "SHIT!" The crack of rifle fire peppered the house, a vase exploding above his head, causing him to throw a protective arm across the top of his head. China fragments rained down on him, covering him in a fine white dust. He belly-crawled across the floor, staying low out of the range of the bullets that sang through the air like angry bees. "SHIT! SHIT! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? _SHIT_!" Window after window was destroyed, the glass showering the floor. Michael crawled into the lounge, reaching up blindly to a drawer. A bullet narrowly missed his hand, smacking into the wooden frame of the unit. He snatched his hand away and then in one swift move, reached up again, pulled the drawer out of the unit, ignoring the crash as it clattered to the floor, the handle still firmly in his grasp. He grabbed the automatic pistol that slid from its hiding place and checked the clip. Full. OK, then, whoever was shooting at him was gonna get some _bitchin' payback…_

"_Faugh-a-Balaugh! Faugh-a-Balaugh!"_.

"What the…"

"It's Gaelic for Clear the Way, my little soldier boy. Chilling, isn't it?"

Michael snapped his head around, his gun held in front of him, the unit still to his back. He glanced around the room and in the corner, relaxing on a Lazyboy chair, sat a dark, shadow-shrouded figure. The figure leaned forward into the half-light and smiled slowly at Michael. The black eyes bored into him, chilling him to the bone…

"YOU!"

"Surprise!" The black-eyed man laughed. "I thought our little conversation this morning was cut a trifle short, so…" He waved his arm dismissively. "In case you're wondering, that's the 69th New York Irish Brigade out there. Good lads, a little slow on the uptake sometimes, but damn good soldiers, nevertheless. Obviously, over the years I've swelled their ranks a little. You know, a soldier here, a soldier there. This town produces some of the best, you know. Men like you." He sat back into the chair and smiled at Michael, his fingers drumming on the leather armrest of the chair. "Here's the thing, Michael. I don't think you quite understood my little proposal earlier. It wasn't multiple choice, Gunny. It was a direct order. And that's the nice thing about the lads out there, Gunny, they _follow orders!" _Without seeming to move, the black-eyed man was suddenly crouching down in front of Michael, inches away from his face. The slow, lazy smile had vanished and Michael stared into two eyes that were the most terrifying thing he had ever seen in his life. Reflected in those black pools were all of his own inner demons, tearing at his mind for priority, screaming to be heard, laughing maniacally in his mind. He pushed his head back against the unit, trying to get away from that hellish vision in front of him, but there was nowhere left to go… The black-eyed man leaned in closer; his hot breath brushing against Michael's cheek, filling his nostrils with a sulphurous stench that made him retch. The black eyes were locked on him and didn't notice the tiny movement…

The 9mm cracked and the black-eyed man looked suddenly surprised as he felt the bullet slam into his guts from close quarters. Michael snarled in defiance. "The only orders I follow, asshole, are from my CO!" The gun cracked twice again, a double-tap straight into the bastard's guts. The man rocked back on his heels, staring down at where the three bullets had punched into his body. He looked up slowly at Michael, and that slow, lazy smile spread across his face. He wagged a finger at the now-terrified man and laughed. Suddenly he threw back his head and roared…

"_FOGHA!!" _The 69th roared in response to the order to attack and the bullets slammed into the walls. Michael dropped the pistol and covered his head, cowering from the onslaught. The black-eyed man leaned in close, his claw-like hand holding Michael's pistol. "Wanna 'nother shot, Gunny?" He tossed the gun to one side with a laugh and his taloned hand shot out, gripping Michael's face, the nails digging into his skin. Michael screamed in agony as the full fury of the demon slammed into him, tearing his mind apart. But it wasn't the demon's attack that was killing him. It was the four bullets from the Civil War rifles of the 69th Brigade that slammed into his body. Blood poured from his nose and eyes, running in rivulets down his cheeks. He gasped, unable to push air into his lungs as his throat filled with his own blood, choking him…

The black-eyed man snatched his hand away from Michael and threw his head back, moaning softly, savouring the last gasps of the dying man as a connoisseur would the last drops of a fine wine. Michael's head lolled to one side, the blood still running down his cheeks. The last crack of a rifle echoed away and the black-eyed man stood up, surveying his handiwork. He looked to the gaping hole that had once been a window and nodded. In the night, shadows melted back, the snap of a fluttering standard being lowered filling the night. In seconds, silence filled the decimated house. The black-eyed man stood over the body of Michael. He chuckled quietly to himself. "Time to join a _new _regiment, Gunny!" He turned abruptly and walked out of the house and into the night…

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Dean slipped quietly through the police cordon and flashed a fake ID at the cop on duty. The cop looked spooked. Seriously spooked. He waved Dean through with barely a glance at the ID. Dean had waited until the excitement had died down and Michael's body had been taken away. He picked his way gingerly through the shattered remains of the kitchen, a frown creasing his brow. He whistled softly under his breath. "Man, this guy must've seriously pissed a gang off!" He studied the bullet holes in the wall – there must have been over a hundred rounds fired into the house. And they were reporting that the guy had died of a brain haemorrhage? Yeah, right. Something was seriously not right here…

He moved quietly into the lounge, his sharp eyes not missing anything. Dean's gaze came to rest on the Lazyboy chair. The black leather had a dusting of some kind of powder…

"Sulphur. Crap. Major crap." Dean rubbed the yellow powder between his finger and thumb, scanning the room with his eyes. "C'mon, dead guy, talk to me…" A picture caught his attention on the mantelpiece of the fire. A good-looking man in Marine Corps uniform. Dean picked the picture up and studied it.

"What the HELL do you think you're doin'?" Dean spun around to face a powerfully built man, the 9mm automatic pointing straight at Dean's chest. Dean threw his arms up submissively. "I said…"

"Dude, I heard you. I'm gonna go for my ID, OK? _OK?_" Dean slid his hand into his jacket slowly, praying that the distance between the two men and the dim light would cover the obvious fake photo-ID. He pulled his hand out slowly and held the ID up. "NCIS. I'm investigating Master Sergeant Watt's death."

"Bull. You ain't NCIS. Wanna try again, son?" The man's finger tightened around the trigger of the 9mm.

Dean frowned. "OK, you wanna tell me what the hell _you're _doin' in here, waving a pistol around, pal?" He hoped that the mock anger in his voice would kick into the man's conditioning to follow orders. Dean was guessing that the man was in the forces. His bearing screamed military. He pushed the fake ID away and tried to look as menacing as he could.

It wasn't working.

"You ain't NCIS, you ain't Police and you ain't FBI. I'm running out of patience here, son."

"I…" Dean was suddenly surprised by the man as he moved forward quickly, pinning Dean to the wall by his throat. Dean clasped his hands around the man's wrist, trying to break the grip he had on his windpipe. The man was an expert. Just enough pressure to hold him, with the promise of more than enough to crush his windpipe if he didn't hear the right answers… "OK! OK! Ease up there, big fella!"

"Answers. _Now_."

"I'm trying to find out what happened here, OK? Kinda taking a different angle on it, if you like." Dean tried to smile disarmingly at the man. The man glowered and slammed him against the wall again. Dean grunted as the wind was knocked out of his body.

"What do you mean, from a different angle? You a goddamn _reporter_? Another one of them bloodsuckers, here to try and make something outta nothin'?"

"What?"

"Sayin' it's all to do with the hauntings in this place and other such bullshit?"

Dean smiled again. "Dude, you made me. OK. Hands up. That's why I'm here. Weekly World News."

"So why you impersonating NCIS then, asshole?"

"Hey!" Dean winced as he was slammed into the wall again. He glared at the man who merely smirked at him. Dean felt the tension relax in the man's hand just a fraction and, timing his move, he suddenly slammed his forehead into the man's nose. The man roared and stumbled backwards, momentarily disorientated by the attack. Dean chopped at the man's wrist with the blade of his hand, sending the gun spinning across the room. He pulled his own pistol out from the small of his back and the man looked into the barrel of a Glock and froze, his hands cradling his broken nose. Slowly, his hands dropped down and he stared at Dean, his face bloodied.

"You're good, boy. Very good. Not many reporters could do that. But then, you're not a reporter, either, are you?"

Dean cocked his head to one side and grinned. "Nope. Sorry, sir. But I kinda got this _thing_ about people trying to choke me."

"D'you notice the sulphur?"

Dean's eyes widened in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"The sulphur. On the Lazyboy. It's on the edge of the window frame too."

Confusion crossed Dean's face. "OK, what the _hell…"_

"You have _got _to be Dean. Good fighter, bit slow on the uptake. Bobby warned me you would be." The man ignored Dean's stares and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a tissue and dabbed at his bloody nose, wincing. He glanced up again at Dean and pushed the bloody tissue back into his pocket.

Dean dropped his arms, the gun hanging limply in his hand. "OK, so you have the drop on me here, dude. Who the _hell _are you?"

"Alexander Armstrong. You can call me Alex." The man turned and picked up his gun, flicking the safety catch on and pushing it back into his belt. He straightened his jacket and zipped up the front, wiping the sleeve across his still-bloody nose. "And don't think I ain't gonna forget this busted nose, boy. When this is over, I'm gonna open a king-size tin of whoop-ass on you for that one. Sneaky move. Your Dad teach you that one?"

"No I learnt it in prison…Look, um…"

"Alex."

"Alex. Right. Let me get this straight. You're a _hunter?_"

"Yep. Well, no. Well, yes and no."

"What the _hell _is _that _supposed to mean?"

"That fake NCIS ID you flashed at me? Wanna see a_ real _one?" Alex pulled a wallet out of his pocket and flipped it open. In a smooth flick of the wrist, he flipped the wallet on its side and Dean saw the badge.

"Ah. Crap…"

"Ah crap indeed, Dean. You know how many federal laws you just broke with that little stunt?"

"I can explain…"

"Dean, no you can't, so don't try. You suck out loud at lying, son." Alex put the wallet back in his pocket and walked over to the window frame. He studied the yellow powder that dusted the frame and then turned his attention back to Dean. "Special Agent Armstrong. During daylight hours I'm a member of Naval Criminal Investigative Services. But what I do in my spare time is my own business. So I'm gonna overlook your little felony back there, Winchester, because we've got a whole heap of other crap going on here that kinda takes priority, know what I mean?"

"Well, I'm not sure I do, but I'm beginning to…"

Alex smiled. "Well, may I suggest we adjourn back to your motel room and have a little chat? I'm sure your brother would benefit from knowing what's going on here too, don't you?"

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Sam sat, staring at the flickering computer screen. Without looking, he scribbled notes into a reporter's notebook by his side. The pattern was beginning to emerge… The door clicked open and his brother walked in, a sheepish look on his face. Sam spun around in his seat and ignored his brother's open mouth. "Dean, listen. I've found something here. There's a pattern, a pattern of deaths amongst military personnel over the last few years. I hacked into the Naval database and pulled all the files on Marines with connections in this area and…"

"And there's _another _major felony I'm gonna have to ignore. Jesus H Christ, you two really _do _wanna spend the rest of your lives behind bars, don't you?" Alex moved out of the shadow behind Dean and grinned.

"Sammy? Meet Special Agent Alexander Armstrong, NCIS. Alex? My geeky, computer hacking brother, Sam." Dean walked into the room and slumped down onto a chair. Alex closed the door quietly. He leaned on the door, his powerful arms folded over his chest. A look of wry amusement crossed his face.

"Hey Sam. You're brother's told me all about you."

"Dean?"

"It's a long story." Dean studied his fingernails, a look of embarrassment on his face. He glanced up at his brother, who was obviously waiting for some kind, _any kind, _of explanation. Dean shrugged. "He's a hunter. And a cop. And a hunter. I said that already, didn't I?"

"Uh, _yes,_ but…"

"Look Sam, I can call you Sam? It's very simple. My _day-job_ is NCIS. My _spare-time _job is hunting. And you've walked into a real storm here, boys. Any coffee in this place?" Dean motioned to the coffee machine in the corner of the room. "Thanks. You want?" Dean nodded. "Cool. So, you found the same pattern I did then, Sam?" Alex walked over to the coffee machine and poured two mugs out. He crossed the room and handed one mug to Dean, who took it wordlessly. Alex turned and looked over Sam's shoulder at the laptop screen, nodding sagely. "Basically, someone or something has been going after Marines for a while now. We've had several unexplained deaths since, well, since you guys opened that damn gate."

"Whoa. Just a second here, tiger. Let's get one thing straight right now. We did _NOT _open the damn gate! We freakin' closed it, OK?" Dean glared at the man, irked by the assumption that he and his brother had been responsible for letting the demons pour out of hell on that awful night…

"OK, hey sorry, my bad. Just sayin' like I heard. Anyhoo, the gate opened, Marines started dying. So far, our ME has put them all down to natural causes or unsolved murders, but there's way too many for it to be normal. And no matter which way you look at it, this last one ain't gonna get covered up as a natural causes. Not with four bullet holes in his chest. Plus at every scene, there's been evidence of sulphur. Demonic, if I'm any judge." He took a mouthful of coffee and pulled a face. "Man, this is vile!" He shrugged and swallowed another mouthful. "So. With the increase in activity at military sites like this, and the dead Marines, what have we got here?"

"What do you mean, the increase in activity at military sites?" Sam scowled.

"Check your websites, Sam. All the local ghost-hunter sites. They've all reported a notable rise in activity at Civil War, War of Independence and other battlefield locations. It's not generally noted, but there's been a cluster of reports on some of the modern military installations too. Most of it has been dismissed as drunken BS, well, dismissed by those who don't know about this kinda thing, anyway. It has piqued the interest of certain parties, though."

"Certain parties? What do you mean?" Sam had closed the laptop, trying to disguise the fact that he was still logged into the official Naval Database.

"I'd close that link down if I were you, son. They got some clever people working in Washington. Track you like a bloodhound if you leave that link open for longer than three minutes. And by certain parties, I mean people like myself. People who know about the other side of things." He glanced at Dean, who was staring wide eyed at him, and laughed. "Oh, c'mon, Dean, you honestly think that you guys are the only ones who _hunt?_ The military have known about it for years! Ever watched the X-Files? All true you know…" He wiggled his eyebrows and laughed again. "No. We think that our demonic friends are on a recruitment drive, and they ain't usin' a poster of Uncle Sam to pull squaddies into the recruitment centres, if you know what I mean. I've had to deal with two possessions in as many weeks. Two exorcisms. And the traps _only just_ held." He leaned forward, the coffee mug cupped in his hands. "I think that someone _big _got out when that gate got opened. The gate was opened by a soldier, right?" Dean nodded.

"Jake, yeah. He was a soldier."

"Exactly. So my guess? Someone or some_thing _is recruiting themselves an army. And where better than sites like this? You already got off the chart activity, damn it, whole _battalions _have been seen around here! And the amount of negative energy in these places is colossal, enough to lend power to god knows what."

"So you're saying that we're up against a demon here, and not just some pissed off Civil War ghost? Oh, great. That's just _great. _So how do I kill it?"

"I don't know, Dean. Until we know _who _we're up against, I got nothin'. Damn it…" Alex's phone buzzed angrily. He flipped it open. "Yep?" The man stood up and moved towards the door, turning his back on the brothers. Sam shot a look at Dean, his eyes wide and questioning. Dean mouthed 'I don't know!' at his brother, and glanced at the exposed back of Alex. "OK. Give me a couple of hours." Alex snapped the phone shut and turned around. "Another death, a few miles from here. You gonna be here for a couple of days?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, sure."

"OK, I'll be in touch. Be careful, OK? Whoever we're up against, they ain't no pussycat. So watch your backs. Here's my number." He handed Dean a business card. "Call me if you get something." Alex opened the door and slipped out into the night, closing the door softly behind him.

For a few seconds, the two brothers stared at the closed door. Without looking at his brother, Sam finally spoke. "You punched him on the nose, then?"

"Head-butted."

"Oh. Right." Sam stood up and ran his hand through his hair. "OK. So. What the HELL just happened there, Dean?"

"We got ourselves an ally. Don't question it, Sammy. Just roll with it. From the sounds of things, we could do with all the help we can get right now." Dean was deep in thought, staring into his cooling coffee.

"You're kidding me, right? I mean, how the hell do we know he's who he said he is? And if he _is _a fed, how long do you think it's gonna be before they kick the door in, Dean? You know? Those little _misdemeanours _of yours? We have to get out of here. Now." Sam started picking up his possessions and stuffing them into a bag. Dean stood up angrily and ripped the bag out of his brother's hand and hurled it onto the bed.

"You want me to bitch-slap you, Samantha? We ain't goin' _anywhere_ until I find this demonic son of a bitch and put a bullet in his head, OK? That guy who died tonight? He was Echo 2/1. Dad's old unit."

"So you're gonna go on another suicide mission because of some misguided loyalty to dad's old _unit_? For God's sake, Dean…"

"Well at least I'm willing to stand and fight, Sammy, and not run like some cheerleader at the first sign of trouble! Man, what is _with _you?" Dean glared angrily at his brother. "You been on my case ever since we got here. What is it, Sammy? What's got you so goddamn spooked? _Tell me!"_

"I don't know, Dean, just a feeling…"

"Hey, hey, hey! _I'm _the one with the spook radar, OK? You stick to your visions." Dean narrowed his eyes. "You had a vision, Sammy?"

"No, nothing since Yellow-eyes died. I swear. It's just…"

"What?"

"I got a feeling we're being watched…"

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The blue and red flashing lights of the emergency vehicles ripped the darkness of the night apart. Alex parked the Civic and stepped out into a maelstrom of confusion, blue tape and bystanders. He glanced in his wing-mirror and smiled. The Impala had growled to a stop just down the road. He could see Dean watching him closely. Alex laughed to himself and turned, beckoning to Dean.

In the Impala, Dean rolled his eyes. Damn, this dude was good. He was sure Alex hadn't noticed him following the Civic – he had left just enough room between them to avoid that. But then, the Impala was distinctive so… He climbed out of the car, the doors creaking in complaint. He really should get around to greasing those hinges… Dean pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his battered leather jacket and strode towards Alex. The man's obvious amusement at Dean's embarrassment _yet again_ riled the man. Smug son of a bitch! He stopped in front of the Agent. "So? Ya made me."

"Only just now. Apart from that? Good work. Wanna come and work for us?"

"Kinda a problem there."

"Oh, yeah. Missouri. And Milwaukee."

"You know about that?"

"I know what the feds _think, _Dean. And the fact that they _know _Jack."

"Thanks. Appreciate that."

Alex laughed. "Man, I do believe we're bonding, Winchester!"

Dean glowered at the man. "Don't push it, dude. Remember your nose?"

"Remember your rapsheet?"

"Touché."

"OK, here's the thing. I had a feeling you'd be tagging along, just to check me out and see if I'm who I say I am. I'm pretty sure Sam's on the phone to Bobby right now, right?"

Dean nodded. "On speed-dial."

"Well, this way you both get confirmation. And I don't blame you for being careful. There's a lot of hunters out there who've got the wrong idea about you two. Doesn't make for an easy life." He turned his head and glanced at the uproar. "Follow my lead, OK? C'mon." He turned and walked quickly to the police officer guarding the entrance to the house. The man stiffened as he saw the two men walking towards him. Alex flipped out his badge and showed it clearly to the man. "NCIS. Special Agent Armstrong. This is my colleague, Special Agent DiNozzo." Dean stifled a laugh, desperately trying to look serious. The police officer lifted the tape and the two men ducked underneath. When they were out of earshot, Dean turned to Alex, a look of wry amusement on his face.

"Special Agent _DiNozzo_?"

Alex stopped abruptly, his hazel eyes twinkling with amusement. "You kinda remind me of him. Now stop screwing around and come on." He walked away towards the house.

Dean stared at the man's retreating back and sighed. "Goddamn it, I am _so _not like that dude!" He trotted after Alex.

The house was crawling with agents, police, forensics officers and photographers. Alex marched up to the most official looking man and flipped his badge. "NCIS. What we got?"

The man looked up from his notebook and shrugged. "Dead Marine. One of yours. His neck was broken. Snapped like a goddamn twig. Looks like he put up a good fight, though." The man nodded towards the overturned furniture and smashed coffee table. "Looks like a goddamn tornado went through here."

"Hmm." Alex glanced around the room. "See what you can find, DiNozzo."

"On it, boss!" Alex smiled inwardly at the show of sarcasm from Dean.

The police officer raised an eyebrow. "_DiNozzo_? As in…"

"Yeah, what're the odds? And between you and me? He's just as bad!" The police officer glanced at Dean and back at Alex. Alex's eyes widened in amusement and the police officer laughed conspiratorially. He flipped his notebook shut.

"So I guess I can turn this over to you now then?"

"Sure. Rest assured, you will receive a full report from us." Alex watched the police officer motion to his men and the local police filed out of the room, happy to turn the whole sorry mess over to NCIS. Alex looked over at Dean, who was crouched down staring intently at the floor. "Got something, DiNoz…"

"Quit it, Alex. They've gone now. You ain't got an audience anymore." He held up a finger, a yellow powder dusting his fingertip. "Sulphur."

"Crap."

"Yeah, crap indeed. You know, what I don't get is if this big bad is trying to _recruit _soldiers, why's he killing them? Surely all he has to do is possess them and bingo! One army of good liddle soldiers!" Dean stood up, dusting his hands on his tatty jeans.

"Perhaps these are the ones who resist? I don't know, Dean. Should we ask him?"

"Ask who?"

"The big bad."

"And we do that how, exactly?"

"What's the one big weakness all demons have, dude?"

"I don't know, an allergy to cheese?"

"Damn Dean, if that were the case, all we'd have to do is force-feed them Camembert! No, arrogance, Dean, _arrogance. _There's one Marine left in town on leave at the moment. My guess is buddy-boy's gonna go after him next. Fancy a stake-out?"

"Will there be donuts?" Dean grinned.

Alex sighed. "You're just a big kid really at heart, ain't ya? OK, OK, I'll get donuts! Shall we?" He motioned towards the door with a flamboyant flourish. .

Dean smiled broadly. "Lead on, MacDuff!"

Alex looked surprised. "Whoa, dude. _Shakespeare _references?"

"Shakespeare? Dude, I have no idea who MacDuff is. I just heard someone say it once. Sounded cool." Dean shrugged and grinned again.

"You're…_weird_…"

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Sam snapped the phone shut and tapped his chin with it, a thoughtful look on his face. Alex checked out. Bobby said he was one of the few people the boys could trust. Could be useful. Having an inside on a federal agency… He stood up suddenly and spun around, the gun in his hand sniffing the air like a predatory animal. The presence in the room had only just made itself felt. Sam cursed inwardly. He should've sensed it coming…

"Greetings, my king!" The black-eyed man spread his hands wide in salutation and bowed his head.

"What? What did you call me?" Sam wavered for a second, thrown by the mannerism of the beast that confronted him.

The man, his head still bowed, smiled slowly. "Surely you cannot have forgotten so quickly?" He looked up, that slow, lazy and utterly chilling smile still on his lips. His hands dropped to his sides, glanced around and sat down in an easy-chair. "You don't mind if I sit in your presence, my lord?"

Sam's finger tightened on the trigger, an angry frown wrinkling his features. "Stop calling me that!"

"Why deny your identity? What troubles me, though, is your presence here. Your brother, I can understand. Just being a good little soldier as we have come to expect from him. His place in our army in time will be welcome, if not by him, then certainly by us. So willing to follow orders, isn't he? So compliant. So accommodating. You know he's currently running around in circles with that Alex Armstrong?" The black-eyed man looked thoughtful. "There's another soul I'm going to have to claim. Very like Dean. A good soldier. Another useful addition for our army, my lord."

Sam raised the gun and brought it back, the frustration turning to fury. "STOP CALLING ME THAT!"

"But why? It's the truth, you know it is."

"Bull."

The black-eyed man chuckled quietly. "No, Sammy, seeing as you hate my lord so much, I'll have to revert to a more familiar term."

Sam's eyes hardened. "Only my brother calls me that."

"My goodness, we _are _sensitive, aren't we?" The demon waved a dismissive hand. "No matter. I am merely a messenger, not the message writer. And I'm here on holy work, as it were. I would appreciate your brother's over-zealous interest were somewhat curtailed."

Sam let out a shout of laughter. "Excuse me? You just want me to call Dean and say, hey Dean! Guess what! This black-eyed dude paid me a visit and explained that all he was doing was recruiting some kind of demonic army and would we mind awfully tucking our tails between our legs and skidaddling outta town, so he can get on with his mission?" The 9mm shouted out, the bullet thudding into the backing of the chair, millimetres from the demon's head. "Not gonna happen, dude. Not gonna happen. And the next bullet ain't gonna miss, believe me."

"Oh, I believe you, Sammy, sorry, _Sam._" The man glanced sideways at the bullet-hole in the cushion that was bleeding stuffing. "But you do get the general gist of things, Sam. And believe _me_, you will thank me when the time comes. We _need _these men, Sam, we _need _them. When the final battle comes…"

"So if you need them so badly, why are you killing them? Answer me that!"

"Because I need their _souls, _Sam, not their bodies! Dear me, did you learn _nothing _during your time with us?"

"I'm sorry, pal, you have me at a disadvantage. I got nothin' here."

The black-eyed man frowned. "Ah. I see. No memory. Hmm. They said that might be the case." He stood up suddenly. "You'll have to excuse me now, sire, another soul to harvest." He glanced at his watch. "And very little time to do it in. You see, I'm only here for a limited time. The 17th September. After that? On to another site, another battle. Another _harvest._"

"Wait!"

The man was gone.

Sam stood, the gun still held out in his outstretched hands, a wisp of blue cordite-tinged smoke curling from its snout. "Crap!" Sam dropped his hands down, the gun hanging limply in his right hand. "Crap!" He threw the gun down and picked up his phone, punching Dean's number in and pushing the phone against his ear. "C'mon Dean, pick up! Pick UP!…"

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Dean listened to his brother's voice, his face a mask. Alex glanced over at the man, a frown of concern creasing his features. "OK, so he's going after soldiers on the _date _of the battle, right? Dean's voice was hard, efficient. Alex could see the man was in 'business mode', as he liked to call it. "Yeah, I know who's next on his shopping list. We're heading there now. Any ideas on how we stop this son of a bitch, bro?"

Alex was only getting one half of the conversation. And it was making him nervous.

"OK. You know where we'll be. Try to get there as soon as you can. And bring everything you can think of, Sammy. Anything that'll help us turn this bastard into a crispy critter. _Anything, _Sammy. And bro? Be careful, OK?" Dean snapped his phone closed. "GODDAMN IT!" He punched the dashboard.

"Hey! This is a company car, dude, and any damage comes outta my wages!"

"Can it, Alex! My brother's just had a little head to head with the bastard that's been killing your marines, OK?"

"Shit."

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly!" He pushed the phone back into his pocket and pulled out his automatic, checking the clip with a tap and pushing the cartridge back into its housing in the butt of the gun. He pulled the bolt back with a snap and replaced the gun in his belt. "OK, this black-eyed asshole is on a recruitment drive for some kinda demonic army. He kills them because he only needs the souls, not the bodies. Sammy said he's only here for the anniversary of the battle, then he moves on to another site, another anniversary." Dean glanced at his watch. "Twenty after eleven. We got forty minutes before this son of a bitch vanishes. And we know who he's going after." He stared hard at Alex. "Wanna push that gas pedal through the floor, dude?"

"On it!" The Civic leapt forward, Alex coaxing it expertly through the streets of Sharpsburg. The whole town had an eerie silence about it, as if it were waiting for something… "Our last gunny lives just off Bloody Lane. Could be a problem with that. "

"The 69th Brigade?"

"My thoughts exactly. Our friend is using them as his own personal army, and we need to distract them away from Sargent Armstrong. " He glanced at Dean. "No relation, before you ask. But his family has connections here going way back. Anyway, the legend goes that the 69th are tied to Bloody Lane. Every time they've been spotted or heard, they vanish halfway across the bridge over the Antietam Creek. " He glanced again at Dean. "Dude? What you thinkin'?"

"Drop me at Bloody Lane."

"You ain't thinkin' of doin' something stupid are you, Dean…"

"Drop me at Bloody Lane. If I can lure them across the bridge, that'll give you and Sam time to get to Armstrong and get him the hell outta there. We may not be able to stop this black-eyed son of a bitch, but at least we can save Armstrong. Then? Well, then, me and Sam'll go after him when he next shows his fugly face. By then we should know who we're dealing with and more importantly how we can _kill _the bastard. So just drop me at Bloody Lane, Alex. and go save your Marine, OK?"

Alex could see that there was no arguing with Dean, so he merely nodded and pushed the gas pedal harder into the floor of the Civic…

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Sergeant Paul Armstrong, US Marine Corp Echo 2/1 kissed his son on the forehead and pulled the covers up to the boy's chin. "So. You gonna be OK, sport?" The little boy nodded, his blue eyes wide. "And you know that there ain't no demons in your closet, right?" The little boy nodded again. "And that it was just your imagination, yeah?" The boy nodded. "Want me to leave the hallway light on?" Paul smiled gently at his son, ruffling his blonde hair. "OK then. But you have to promise to go straight to sleep, soldier. Or no baseball tomorrow, OK?" He stood up and smiled down on his young boy. The boy still clutched the edge of the bedding with tight little hands. Paul frowned gently. "Hey now, did you not hear me about there being no demons in the closet? Want me to check again?" The boy nodded vigorously. Paul pointed at the closet. "You think he's in here? Shall we have a look-see? And if he's there; I'll kick his ugly ass back to Hell, OK?" He grinned and put a conspiratorial finger to his lip, creeping dramatically up to the closet. He curled his hand around the handle turned and winked at his little boy. He wrenched the closet door open. "OK YOU IN THERE! You wanna scare my boy? I'm gonna kick your scrawny little demon a…What the… "

His eyes widened in surprise…

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Sam gunned the Impala. He knew that Dean was going to be mad at him for hot-wiring the car, "but that's what happens when you only have one set of keys, Dean!" Sam pushed the gas pedal hard, for a moment understanding just why Dean got so much pleasure out of hearing that big V8 lump roar. The night sped past him in a neon blur, the street lights strobing on the wet blacktop as the Impala's tyres sat down and bit into the tarmac. Sam could feel his guts churning. He had only told Dean half the story. How could he tell him the rest? He didn't even understand it himself. The time he had spent with them? Who the hell were they? Time where? When? How? Sam squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head, opening his eyes again and wiping his hand over his face and breathing deeply. The churning in his gut was tying his stomach into knots. My lord? My king? The bastard had actually saluted him, practically prostrated itself in front of him. Why? Who the hell did he think Sam was? Why would he be trying to raise an army? What final battle?

The Impala sped on. As it roared past the corn-field, spectral eyes watched it, the snap of an Irish standard fluttering in the breeze…

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"Are you sure about this, Dean?" Alex leaned across the passenger seat of the Civic, his arm wound around the headrest and a concerned look on his face.

"I'm sure. Get to Armstrong. Sam'll meet you there. Do whatever it takes, Alex. _Save him."_

"Who, Dean? Armstrong or Sam?"

Dean stared hard at Alex. "Both of them, Alex. Both of them." He slammed the passenger door of the Civic closed and turned, staring into the darkened lane.

Alex pulled away, glancing in his rear-view mirror of the figure standing alone in the middle of the deserted lane. He gripped the steering wheel and pushed the Civic hard….

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Sam skidded to a halt, the Impala spitting up dust. He threw open the driver's door, the gun coming up in his hand as his left hand slammed the creaking door closed. He quickly scanned the darkened house. Nothing. No signs. "Dean says hi." Sam swung around and Alex took a step back, his own gun in his hand. "Whoa, ease up there, Sam!"

"Where's Dean?"

"Heading the army of the Undead off at the pass."

"_What_?"

"He said he had a plan to stop the 69th doing their work." Alex glanced at his watch. "Sam, we've only got nine minutes. We better move."

"Are you telling me Dean is facing down an entire platoon of phantom soldiers? On his _own?"_

"What can I say? Kid's got a death wish."

"That's my goddamn _brother, you asshole!" _

"Sam, listen to me. Dean knows what he's doing. Our job is to get to Armstrong before our black-eyed friend does, so shall we?" Alex set off at a run for the front door. Sam paused, glancing to the east. What the HELL was Dean doing? He turned back and followed Alex up the path, running in a sideways crouch, the gun held in both hands. Alex pounded on the door. "SARGEANT ARMSTRONG! OPEN UP! NCIS! OPEN THE DOOR!" Sam glanced up as the porch light fizzled and flickered, finally winking out. Alex stared at the now black lamp. "That's _never _a good thing…"

"He's here!"

Alex put his shoulder to the door, leaned back and hit the door hard. The wood surrounding the lock shattered into splinters and the door slammed open, crashing against the inside wall. In a split second, Alex's gun was up, the barrel pointing rigidly ahead. He flickered his eyes expertly around the hall, taking in every detail. Sam moved in behind him, ducking under his arms and keeping low. "ARMSTRONG!" Alex glanced at Sam and motioned for him to check the room leading off from the hallway. Sam crouch-ran into the room, coming up straight as he entered the room, his gun arcing left then right.

"Clear."

Alex looked at the stairs and stepped onto the bottom tread, keeping his back to the wall and his eyes on the top of the stairway. Sam followed Alex's stare. At the top of the stairs stood Paul Armstrong, his son in his arms. Behind him was a shadowy figure Sam knew all too well…

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Dean stood still and calm in the middle of the lane, his Glock held loosely in his right hand. He waited. Waited for an army of ghosts intent on killing. Waited for an army that died one hundred and forty years before. An army that had been responsible for the slaughter of hundreds, _thousands _of soldiers.

An army he was facing alone…

In the distance, carried on the breeze, he could hear the tramp of footsteps. A drummer beat out a staccato beat, the echoing sound bouncing off the grassy sides of the lane. Dean knew he had a sprint to the bridge of about a quarter of a mile. He knew he could make it. Felt sure. Certain. As long as he had enough of a head start. And as long as the bastards did what he hoped they would and followed him…

A sudden mist thickened in front of him and the sharp tang of cordite filled the air. The fog seemed to be lit from the inside, as if a light were burning in the centre of it. In the brilliant white mist he could see figures – figures marching. The snap of a standard cracked like a gunshot and the muttering of Latin drifted towards him. The muttering of a ghostly priest speaking hollow words of blessing on the demonic army. Dean drew a shuddering breath, the damp fog cold in his lungs.

"HEY!"

The tramping of feet stopped abruptly.

"HALT! WHO GOES THERE?!" Dean hoped that the command would get the attention of the soldiers and steer them away from their relentless march towards Sergeant Armstrong's house.

"I SAID, WHO GOES THERE? FRIEND OR FOE? STEP FORWARD AND BE RECOGNISED!" Dean bounced on the balls of his feet, ready to run for his life…

The echoing clatter of horses' hooves sounded through the mist. A figure on a massive brown horse came into view, his empty eye sockets staring at Dean. "Colonel Meagher, commander of the 69th of New York Irish Brigade. Identify yourself, soldier!"

"Me? Oh, just some dude!" Dean grinned at the spectral horseman. "Come to give you a real kick-ass reception, you son of a bitch!" Dean raised the Glock and fired at the horse. The ghostly animal screamed and fell, its legs kicking wildly. Colonel Meagher threw himself clear of the thrashing horse, rolling and coming up onto his feet. He raised his head slowly and stared at Dean, a look of utter evil on his face. He drew his sword from its scabbard and raised it in the air.

For a split second, two times, two wars, clashing like titans, stood still. The past faced the future…

"_FAUGH-A-BALAUGH!" _

"Crap!" Dean turned and ran full pelt up the lane, his arms and legs pumping. Behind him he heard the 69th take up the cry and a hundred voices screamed in unison, "_Faugh-a-Balaugh!" _With a roar, the 69th thundered after him, their ghostly boots pounding on the iron road.

Dean ran. He ran for his life. He ran like he'd never run before. The trick had worked! Now all he had to do was outrun an entire platoon of furious Irish ghosts and make it to the bridge before midnight…

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"Hello, Sammy. Alex. Nice to see you again." The figure stepped out from behind Sargent Armstrong and leaned casually against the handrail of the stairs. "Hoping to save Gunny here, were you? Little late for that, don't you think?"

"I don't see an army, you freak! Where're your soldiers?" Sam had a clear shot at the demon. But would it be any good?

"Oh, they'll be here any minute now. Patience is a virtue, Sammy. Patience is a virtue." He chuckled quietly, a savage, blood-curdling sound. The chuckle was punctuated by the whimper of the child, held in his father's arms. Paul Armstrong looked pleadingly at Alex.

"Please, help my boy!"

"Don't move, Marine! Don't move a muscle!" Alex took another step.

"A-a-a! I wouldn't if I were you! One more step, Alex, and I'll order my troops to take the child as well!" The black-eyed man's smile fell away and a dark look passed over his face. Sam frowned, confused by the demeanour of the demon. He glanced at Alex, who returned his puzzled look.

"Why wait for the soldiers, freak? Why not just kill him yourself?"

"Oh, I like to _watch_!" The demon chuckled again, but Sam looked ever more puzzled. Then, realisation hit him. Sam lowered his gun and smiled, the smile turning into a laugh.

"Oh, man! I _get it_! Alex, look at him! Does he look a little, um, _misty _to you? I mean, not quite as solid as before?"

"What?" Alex looked closely at the figure. The black-eyed mans' form had taken on a transparency. Alex could see the picture-rail behind him quite clearly. "Well, damn me! Will you look at that!"

"Sergeant? Get yourself and your son down here. Don't worry, he can't hurt you." Sam put his gun away and crossed his arms over his chest, grinning at the slowly dissipating figure on the stairway. "It all makes sense now. You can only manifest for a limited time during battles and on the days leading up to the anniversaries of the battles, right? You're just a messenger, your exact words to me, if you remember rightly! Oh, clever, you son of a bitch!"

"Um, Sam? Care to fill me in here, dude?"

"It's quite simple, Alex. Our demon here isn't a demon at all. He's a _collector_. They're just minions of the major demons, sent out to collect souls. They can't actually kill the living, just take their soul at the point of death. They have to get something else to do the killing for them, either the person themselves or another party. In Sharpsburg's case, he's been using the army of the 69th, a regiment renowned for its bloodthirsty history and savagery. He selects the targets, in this case, Sergeant Armstrong, and then the 69th come in and do the deed, he collects the soul and everyone's happy in Hell. Except this time, they ain't gonna be so happy, are they? Seeing as you haven't fulfilled your contract!" Sam glanced at the clock in the hallway. "Two minutes, dude. You got two minutes." Sam cupped a hand to his ear. "You hear the marching of an army? 'Cause I don't!" He laughed again. There was a savage note in his laugh that disturbed Alex…

The spectral form of the black-eyed man smiled. "Well, Sammy boy, you made me. Clever, ain't ya? That's why we chose you, you know... But then, who's to say I won't fulfil my contract here?" He leaned over the stairwell, his translucent hands gripping the handrail. "I mean, there _is another _soldier out there, isn't there? One who would be a _very _welcome addition to _your _army?" He paused, his black eyes boring into Sam. "Wonder how fast Dean can run?" He leaned back and laughed, slowly dissolving into mist – the laugh echoing after the figure had dissipated into nothing…

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Dean's lungs were on fire. He had slipped twice on the wet grass as he took a short cut across the garden of a well-kept house, vaulting the picket fence in one move. As he landed, his foot slid on the perfectly manicured lawn and he hit the ground, rolled, and came back up running. "GODDAMN IT!" The army was still following. He could see the bridge, maybe five hundred yards away… He gasped, his breathing ragged and desperate. The roar of the army behind him was getting closer with every step… He took a chance and glanced behind him, his eyes widening as he realised that the closest soldiers of the 69th were only meters behind him. Their black, hollow eye sockets staring sightlessly ahead. They didn't need eyes. They could practically _touch _their target…

Dean leapt over another fence and skidded onto the road that led up to the bridge. His arms flailing wildly, he regained his balance and dug deep, finding that last ounce of energy that would take him over the bridge and to safety… He felt a clawed hand grasp the back of his jacket and he grunted with effort, shaking himself free of the clutching fingers of the dead soldier. The cold, death-like grip had given him the incentive he needed and he heard his boots echoing on the wooden slats of the bridge as he finally made it. Only a few more yards to go…

Another clawed hand reached out and grabbed at him, sending him sprawling. He scrabbled for purchase with his fingertips, but felt an icy grip closing around his ankle. He flipped himself onto his side and stared down the length of his body, deep into the empty eye-sockets of Colonel Meagher. The spectre grimaced at him, his grip on Dean's ankle pulling the man closer to his quarry.

"Get your filthy hands off me, you son of a BITCH!" Dean kicked out hard with his free leg, feeling his boot smash into the face of the Colonel. He felt the razor sharp nails scrape at his ankle, biting deep into his flesh. Dean kicked again, and the grip on his ankle loosened. "Let…_GO, GODDAMN IT!" _Dean drew his knee back and unleashed a third kick into the Colonel's face, The spectre bellowed and Dean shook himself free of the ghost's grip, scrabbling the last few feet over the halfway point of the bridge. He pushed himself backwards, his eyes never leaving the furious ghost commander and his phantom army. The Colonel bellowed again and launched himself forward at Dean.

Dean had nowhere to go. He threw a protective arm over his head, waiting for the final onslaught…

It didn't come. Silence flooded around Dean and slowly he lowered his arm. They had gone. Vanished into the mist that swirled up from the Creek and snaked in tendrils around the bridge. Dean stared around him at the empty bridge. Nothing. No standard snapping in the wind. No priest, muttering in Latin. No drummer-boy, pounding out a beat. No soldiers. "Oh, _man!" _Dean slumped backwards, lying flat on the damp wooden slats of the bridge. He flung his arm across his eyes, trying to block out yet another nightmarish image that would stay with him for the rest of his life. He glanced at his watch. Midnight, September 18th. For a minute, he lay there, trying to catch his breath. Then, his green eyes snapped open, a look of concern on his face…"Sammy!" Dean sat bolt upright, and stared straight into the blinding light of car headlights. The car speeded towards him and he got ready to roll out of the way in case the driver didn't see him in time…

The Impala slued to a stop inches from the seated Dean. Dean held his hand in front of his eyes, shielding them from the intense beam of the headlights. The door creaked open and Sam leapt out of the driver's seat.

"Dean? Dean, you OK? DEAN!"

"It's OK, I'm right here, dude, sheesh! Calm down will you?" Dean stood up, disguising the sharp pain in his right ankle from the wounds inflicted by his ghostly pursuer. He dusted his hands on his tatty jeans and grinned broadly at his brother. "You're late."

"You're shaking."

"So would you be if you'd just done a Ben Johnson with a goddamn spectral army on your ass, Sammy! Cut me some slack here!" His bravado fell away momentarily and his green eyes were serious. "The Marine?"

"Safe, but he's gonna need therapy for the rest of his life."

"Cool. I mean, cool he's alive. Sucks about the therapy." Dean strolled towards the Impala, studying his brother. Something was off here… "You OK, little bro?"

Sam shot him a puzzled look. "Yeah, fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Just that you look kinda thoughtful."

"I'm the thoughtful one, remember? You're the gung-ho macho man who overcompensates." The humour sounded forced – not the usual Sammy that Dean knew. Dean stood next to his brother by the driver's door.

"Ooookay then?" He shrugged and reached inside his jacket pocket for the keys to the Impala. As his fingers closed around the cold metal keys, he paused, frowning. "Hey! How'd you get the car started? You _hot-wired _my car?! Dude!" Dean glowered at his brother and pushed past him, slumping down into the driver's seat and checking carefully under the ignition. "If you've scratched the dash, I swear…"

"What?" Sam threw his arms out and widened his eyes. "How the hell else was I gonna get to you in time to save your ass?"

"You _hot-wired _my car!"

"Oh, man, you're _impossible!_" Sam marched around the front of the Impala and threw open the passenger door. "Seriously Dean, I swear you love this car more than is natural, dude!" He sat down in the passenger's seat and slammed the creaking door.

"You hot-wired my damn car!"

"Let it go, Dean."

"But…"

"Let it _go…"_

The Impala roared into life, Dean throwing his brother one last disapproving look. "You hot-wired my goddamn car. I SO owe you for that!"

Sam grinned quietly to himself. Dean's obsession with his car had fortunately steered his butterfly concentration away from Sam's demeanour and away from any awkward questions Dean might have had. Sam let out a quiet sigh of relief and settled back in the seat…

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The diner was bright and cheery. A warm, mouth-watering scent of Pecan Pie and hot coffee filled the air. Sam watched in amazed horror as his brother and Alex shovelled chunks of pie into their mouths, both grinning happily and chewing noisily. He raised an eyebrow, a wry smile on his lips. "Separated at birth?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing. Just…nothing, Dean."

Alex's fork clattered onto the plate. "Man, that has to be the best Pecan Pie I have _ever _tasted! D'ya think they do take-outs? It's a long way back to Washington."

"You can always ask."

Alex grinned at Sam. "So. What next for you two?"

Dean put his fork on his empty plate and picked up his coffee. Who knows? Guess we just see what comes up. You?"

"Back to NCIS. Back to grunt police work. Back to pretending that I know nothing about you two, no matter how much the FBI pressurise me for answers." He raised an eyebrow and took a mouthful of coffee.

Dean put his cup down, his eyes boring into Alex. "What you gonna tell them, dude?"

"That you weren't here. That nothing happened. That we have a couple of unexplained murders on our hands and we're doing everything in our power to solve the cases and give the families the answers they _want to hear._" He drained the coffee cup. "That doesn't necessarily mean the answers that we _know _to be true. My guess is that collector will be back around sometime, but he'll be more careful in future to stay under the radar. That may save some lives, boys, it may not." He stood up and threw a twenty on the table. "Breakfast is on me, guys. Stay safe, OK? If you need anything, you have my number. If you can't get hold of me, leave a message with Bobby." He turned to go, paused and then turned back. "Dean? Can I have a quick word with you please?"

Dean nodded, glancing at his brother, a frown on his face. "Sure. Back in a minute, Sammy." He stood up and followed Alex to the doorway of the diner. "What's up?"

"Dean, look, I don't know how to say this, but are you sure your brother is OK?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's just that… Well, right before that black-eyed son of a bitch vanished, he said something that didn't make any sense."

"What?"

"He said that's why we chose you. Referring to Sam being clever. You make anything of that?" Alex's hazel eyes were serious.

"Demons lie, Alex. They'll say anything to mess with your head."

"Yeah, OK, I'll give you that. But Dean, Sam didn't seem surprised. He didn't react at all. That's why I asked if everything was OK with…"

"Sammy's fine."

"Dean, I just think you should be…"

"Sammy's _fine, _Alex. Got that?" Dean's eyes flashed angrily. Alex backed down. He could see that he was on thin ice here.

"OK, Dean. I trust your judgement. But remember what I said, OK? You need any help, you _call _me." He patted Dean on the shoulder and walked purposefully towards the Civic. As he unlocked the car, he glanced back over his shoulder at Dean, frowning. The boy looked utterly alone…

Dean watched the Civic pull out of the car-lot and turned back into the diner. Sam watched his brother walk towards him. "Everything OK? Dean?"

Dean sat down opposite his brother, staring into the empty coffee mug. "Yeah. Fine. Guess we should be making tracks soon, huh."

"Sure. But, you know?" Sam grinned broadly at Dean. "Perhaps I _will _try a slice of that pie before we go, waddya say?"

Dean looked up and smiled at his brother. But the smile was forced, empty, masking the growing, nagging feeling in the back of his mind that something was very wrong with his little brother…

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Copyright Kes Cross 2007 SNSIE 

Thanks to: 

AJ - Editor 

The US Marines Echo 2/1 website website for research material 

The SNSIE crew 


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